Page 61 of The Muse (Beautiful Magic 1)
My skin prickles.
My blood chills.
No. Just no. This can’t be.
I swallow roughly, trying to understand, wishing I didn’t just unlock the mystery.
But I fear I did.
“You? You cursed Renoir’s paintings?” I don’t want to be right, because this feels so wrong. So twisted against its purpose. “You cursed his art, Thalia. And you’re a Muse.”
Her eyes are wet but hard when they meet mine. “You have to understand, Julien. I love Clio. I love all my sisters. We are all we have—everything else goes into nurturing art and expression. And when he took Clio away . . .” She inhales a deep breath of righteousness that expands her chest and straightens her shoulders. When she speaks again, her words are focused and sharp-edged. “He robbed me of my sister. He robbed the world of all the art she could have inspired.”
I have no room to talk. If anyone had taken Clio from me, I would be just as furious, and I don’t know what drastic step I might have taken.
“Tell me what happened,” I say. “After Clio was trapped, then what?”
If Thalia can fill in the gap in the story, maybe I’ll find a clue how to repair, or at least stop, the damage.
She nods, the movement controlled and crisp. “Suzanne Valadon switched a forgery for the real Woman Wandering in the Irises and brought the painting to me. I tried everything I could think of to reverse what he’d done, used every tool in my kit. I took the canvas to museums around the world and hid inside until night fell to see if the magic there would free her. But the Muse dust is powerful, and he’d trapped her until a human muse came around. It was binding, and there was nothing I could do.”
As she recounts the story, her eyes fill with fury, with the kind of anger that must have engulfed her then. “So, I did the thing I never dreamed that I, or any Muse, would do. I cursed every last painting of his but hers.”
I feel almost guilty for how relieved I am at that, with everything else imploding. “Why now though?” I ask. “Why not ruin the paintings back then?”
Thalia leans against the counter, looking exhausted. “I wanted to take what he loved most, so I cursed his art. And I wanted it to hurt, so I cursed it to fade away . . . but not until a human muse appeared. Just as the wave of inspiration spreads, his legacy would fade away.”
That’s . . . genius.
I’m horrified about the art, and it’s impossible to get past that. But if someone hurt Clio, I’d be just as wrathful, and as far as vengeance goes, Thalia’s is inspired.
But then, she is a Muse.
If only this wasn’t a perfect example of the law of unintended consequences. “The Renoirs started fading right after I interacted with the art—after I tapped into the muse part of me.” She nods in confirmation. “Does he know about the curse? Why his paintings are fading?”
Thalia shakes her head. “He’s never believed in a human muse, because he’s never believed art and beauty can be created by anyone not touched by an eternal Muse. He thinks that to create great works of art you have to be special.”
I connect more dots. Renoir knows his art is fading—that’s why he’s having Cass Middleton recreate the ruined pieces—but he doesn’t know why. If he blames the damage to his paintings on Clio, or rather, the display of her painting, who knows what he might do to her still. Renoir wouldn’t destroy his own work, but he could have Max cut her out of her frame, roll her up, hide her in a closet somewhere, and think his problems are over.
I suddenly feel as tired as Thalia looks. “Look, all I care about is saving the art and protecting Clio.”
She cuts me off. “How is she? Why hasn’t she come back yet? Are you going to let her out of the museum?”
Am I going to let her out?
Has Thalia not met her sister Muse?
“That’s up to Clio,” I say. The thought of her leaving is a twisting pain in my heart, but it’s not up to me.
Someday, maybe soon, Clio will want to get back to her life as a Muse. The best I can hope for is that we can meet between her duties. A stolen kiss here, a brief moment there. I’ll take whatever she can spare me and be grateful to have that much.
“You love her,” Thalia says, surprising me. I don’t know what gave me away, but she’s not asking. It’s a statement and an expression of wonder.
“Yes,” I say with certainty.
“And she is in love with you?”
“Yes.” I don’t doubt that either. Not after last night.
“What is it like? That kind of love?” Thalia asks, as if she’s never even considered it before.
